


The New Guy

by julllian



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Worms, Fluff, M/M, Minor Injuries, No beta we die like archival assistants, Pining, Pre-Season/Series 01, because I don't want this to be 83 chapters of mutual pining, i wrote this fic for me but yall can read it if you want, idiots to lovers, jon is a bitch, tim and sasha are wing-people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:55:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23088937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julllian/pseuds/julllian
Summary: Jon has a new archival assistant.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James & Jonathan Sims
Comments: 105
Kudos: 384





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> cw: Blood/ Injury

Jon wasn't even planning to go down to artefact storage. He was just following up on a statement- submitted by one Ellis Windley- regarding an antique pair of barber's shears. That was barber as in the men that bled people of their illnesses in times of plague- not the kind that cut hair. The statement giver alleged that shortly after coming into possession of the shears, they’d experienced an inability to speak to anyone- they could talk easily while alone, but whenever faced with other people, Mx. Windley had found themselves mute. Tim had attached a note about the humeral system of medicine to the file (being less sanguine was supposed to cause feelings of melancholy and loneliness), but Jon was not about to take advice from a centuries-old, now-defunct theory of disease. As for the testament of the statement giver, they had experienced severe blood loss immediately prior to the events in question. Jon wasn’t a doctor, but he was sure there was some sort of rational medical explanation for the loss of speech.

In short, it sounded like a load of bullshit. But that didn’t mean Jon wasn’t going to follow up.

Artefact storage did end up having the scissors, and it hadn’t been too difficult to find them amongst the various objects lining the shelves. But Jon had underestimated the dirty old blades’ sharpness, and when he picked them up to inspect their identification tag, the shears had sliced into his palm.

“Shit,” Jon hisses, louder than he means to. Elias has a strict no-swearing policy, but Elias isn’t watching him right now and the cut hurts like hell. It’s not a stinging or a burning pain, like he’d expected, but a bone-deep ache that almost feels cold.

“You alright, Jon?” Sasha peeks her head out from the doorway. Ah. So perhaps he hadn’t been as unobserved as he thought.

“Er, yes, Ms. James, thank you. I’ll be fine.” Jon responds, trying to maintain professionalism despite the blood dripping onto his shirt. He pulls a few tissues from a nearby box and press them to his hand, though they don’t do much to staunch the bleeding.

“I told you, it’s just Sasha,” Sasha reminds him, “And that looks like a pretty bad cut. Not one of the artefacts, I hope?”

“Yes- an old pair of scissors.” Jon confirms. Honestly, 'scissors' is a bit of an understatement. They were more like garden shears. He can see a shiver run down Sasha’s spine. She’s not a fan of artefact storage. Then suddenly her face lights up, like she’s remembering something.

“I’ll get the new guy to patch you up! It’ll be a great way for you to get to know each other!” Jon’s brow furrows in suspicion. The last thing he needs right now is to make small talk with a stranger while trying not to stain his jumper.

“The- the ‘new guy’?”

“Oh yes,” Sasha responds, a smug look on her face, “You’ve got a new assistant. He’ll come in handy- I think he knows first aid.”

'The new guy' is a cheery redhead who introduces himself as Martin, though Jon has a feeling he'll be calling him 'Mr. Blackwood' for the foreseeable future. Martin is short, shorter than Jon, though that isn't saying much, and appears to be in his late 20s or early 30s. He does indeed know first aid, but judging by his reaction to Jon’s injury, he wouldn’t have gotten far in medical school.

“Mr. Sims, that’s- are you alright?” Martin asks, doing a very poor job at keeping the shock out of his voice, if he's even trying.

“Yes, yes, I’ll be fine, just a little mishap in artefact storage,” Jon replies dismissively, trying to remember whether he’s supposed to keep the gash above or below his heart.

“You’re bleeding quite a lot, are you sure you don’t need a hand?” Martin presses, concern blatant on his face. Jon opens his mouth to refuse, almost on instinct, but he pauses for a moment. The cut is, he realises, really very deep, and he doubts he’d have much luck trying to bandage it up on his own. So, reluctantly, he peels the tissues off of his hand and holds it out to Martin.

The first thing he does is clean the wound. Once he gets over the initial shock, Martin is far from squeamish, which is more than Jon can say for himself. Examining the injury closely reveals how deep it really is, and Jon tries his best to look away without being too obvious. Martin runs Jon’s hand under the tap in the break room, then asks him to blot it with a towel while he goes to fetch the disinfectant.

“Erm, I’m sorry, this is probably going to hurt quite a lot,” Martin warns Jon when he returns.

"It's probably alright; just get on with it," Jon snaps without thinking. His voice is more impatient than even he's comfortable with. This is, after all, a first impression. "I mean- thank you, Mr- erm, Martin. Thank you, Martin." Martin's eyes dart up to meet Jon's, something like surprise on his face.

"Sure," he says, then pours the disinfectant onto Jon's hand.

It hurts really fucking bad, Jon has to admit. He's had his fair share of scrapes and bruises, but this is… it's a lot. He tries to school his face into a neutral expression, biting his bottom lip to stop from gasping. 

"Oh, god, I'm sorry Jon!" Martin exclaims, and once again his sincerity is evident. Martin is so… transparent about everything, not even making an attempt to hide his emotions. Jon can't decide whether it's endearing or annoying. "Er, I'm going to bandage you up now." Martin begins to unwrap the roll of gauze he brought with him when he got the disinfectant. It's a bit overkill, in Jon's opinion, but he doesn't say anything.

"So, erm, where did you learn first aid?" Jon asks, trying not to sound too dismissive. It's a stupid question and he knows it, but the silence was getting to be unbearable.

"Oh, I studied medicine at university!" Martin replies, clearly relieved to be talking about something he's familiar with.

"You… studied medicine. To work for the Magnus Institute?" Martin's face falls, as if he's been caught in a lie. Jon can almost see his heart plummet into his stomach.

"I mean, I- well- Yes, I… I switched my degree to parapsychology a year into school. For- for personal reasons." Ah, that explains things. Jon sees this in a lot of employees: they experience some sort of paranormal event that leads them to seek employment at the Institute. Whatever happened to Martin, it must have been fairly scarring to make him react like this.

Martin finishes bandaging Jon's hand in silence. The cold, throbbing pain in his hand is almost entirely gone now. Instead there's a strange, not unpleasant warmth spreading from wherever Martin's steady, gentle fingers touch. Jon tells himself it's annoyance at how long this is taking. A whole 20 minutes that he could be working, wasted. He can already feel his face heating up with frustration and frustration only. Jon realises he's been staring into the floor and looks up. Martin's face is somewhat flushed as well. It's probably a little too warm in this room.

"There we are," Martin says, holding Jon's arm at a distance to examine his work. The scrutinous frown on his face definitely doesn't remind Jon of his own focused expressions, and there's also no chance that it actually looks quite attractive on Martin. No chance. Jon feels his cheeks get a few degrees warmer (out of frustration, of course).

Martin lets go of Jon's arm, as if he hadn't realised he was still holding it. To be honest, neither had Jon. It's hard to ignore the slight feeling of loss when Martin's soft hands leave his skin, but Jon gives it his best effort. He stands up and is almost out the door, when-

"Oh, Jon?"

"Yes, Martin?"

"I was just about to fix some tea, would you want a cup?" Martin's voice is tentative. The refusal is halfway out of Jon's mouth before he even has time to consider. He almost always stays away from these kinds of things- tea, office parties, after-work drinks. But maybe…

"Yes, actually, that would be lovely. Thank you." And with that, Jon leaves, because the room was definitely much too warm and it was making his face all red. He passes by Sasha's desk on the way back to his office. Tim is sitting on it, and the two are exchanging giggles and quiet chatter. When Jon walks by, Tim looks up- registers Jon's blushing face and fidgety hands- and for some unfathomable reason, gives Jon a big thumbs-up.


	2. Realisations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is a terrible liar, even to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: this chapter does feature a bit of drinking

Jon is pretty much the same after he's had a few drinks as he is when he's sober. Back when they were dating, Georgie told Jon he was a 'clingy drunk', but he's got much more self-control now. These days the only effect alcohol has on Jon is the loosening of his tongue.

Unfortunately, that's all it takes to get him rambling about Martin at after-work drinks, three weeks after he first showed up in the archives.

"I don't  _ hate  _ him," Jon tells Tim, who has somehow convinced him to come along, "It's just that he's sort of frustrating to work with." Tim nods, clearly rapt with attention at the promise of gossip. "You know when someone just irritates you, to the point where you sort of feel all warm when you're around them? A- and almost nervous, as well, like, jittery. And if they really get on your nerves, it's like you just can't stop thinking about them- about all their habits and mannerisms. That's how it is with Martin, I suppose. Just frustrating." When he finishes, Tim is staring at him with a strange look on his face, an odd mix of amusement and incredulity and maybe a little concern. Then he starts to laugh, hesitantly, like it's the only thing he can think to do.

"What? What is it?" Jon demands. He's always felt relatively comfortable talking to Tim, but maybe this was a step too far. He feels his cheeks start to heat up with embarrassment. "Look, you asked me about my 'feelings for Martin', and I told you, so if you're just going to laugh, then-"

"No! No, it's just… You know how that sounded, right?" Jon runs back through the conversation in his mind, as if he were checking his work in a math problem. But everything seems to add up just fine.

"No? I… don't?"

Tim runs his fingers through his hair, apparently searching for a delicate way to phrase his next sentence. "Are you sure your feelings towards him aren't more, you know, romantic?" Jon blinks at him. "Because I hate to say it, boss, but the way you phrased that  _ really _ makes it sound like you're crushing on the guy."

"What? N-no, it was- I didn't do a good job of explaining it, alright?" Jon sputters, "It's not like that at all."

"Okay, okay," Tim says, obviously unconvinced, "buuut, if you do like him, you know you can always tell me! My lips are sealed. It's like an iron safe up here." He gestures to his head.

"Tim you are literally the worst secret keeper I know," Jon says flatly.

"Whatever."

The evening drags on, and Jon is ready to head out at the late, late hour of 8:30.

"I'm going home," he tells Tim and Sasha as he packs up his briefcase with case files to pore over during the weekend. Martin had declined to come, saying he was busy. It's one decision Jon actually can't blame him for. Tim and Sasha can be… a lot, if you're not used to them.

Technically Jon doesn't go home, not right away. He's feeling rather drowsy, so he makes his way to a café he knows will be open. Though he doesn't like to stay out past 9, Jon usually stays awake much, much later, and he's no stranger to all-nighters. He swings open the door to the café and is immediately greeted by a warm rush of air, the rich smell of coffee... and a familiar shock of red hair peeking out from behind one of the armchairs. Shit.

Jon shuffles to the counter and orders his drink- a black coffee with three shots of espresso- and presses himself into a corner to wait for it. Of  _ course _ Martin is just the type to spend his evenings in coffee shops. He's scribbling in a notebook, occasionally stopping to tap his pen thoughtfully against the paper, totally oblivious to the fact that he's being observed. Jon can only hope it stays that way.

"Jonathan Sims!" One of the baristas calls, loud enough for the entire café to hear. Well, so much for subtlety. _ Stupid, stupid, stupid _ , Jon thinks to himself, dropping his gaze to the floor just before Martin looks up.  _ Why would you give them your full name? No one does that!  _ Jon snatches his coffee off the counter and makes a beeline for the exit, deliberately looking away from where Martin is sitting, and he's almost made it, when-

"Jon?"

_ Damn. _

"Er- yes?"

"Um- hi! I-I didn't expect to see you here!" Martin laughs nervously.

'Yes, neither did I,' Jon says. Or at least it's what he means to say, but it instead comes out as, "I- yes, that is- ah, y-you too." 

"Are you drinking coffee at 8:45 at night?" Martin asks, eyeing Jon's cup. "You're going to ruin your sleep schedule." Jon laughs, harsh and mirthless.

"Can't ruin something you don't have," he replies. He waits for Martin to laugh, or maybe nod in solemn agreement, but he just sighs with an exasperation that seems only half-faked.

"Jon, Jon, Jon," he says, shaking his head, "Burning the candle at both ends. That won't do at all." 

"R-right," Jon replies hesitantly. He doesn't really know what to make of this conversation. "Well, I'd best be heading out; I've got some work to catch up on," Jon says after a long, painfully awkward silence. Work is his excuse for getting out of every situation, and it helps that it's usually true.

"Okay, I'll, er, I'll see you Monday!" Martin calls after him as he walks away.

Tim's words rattle around in Jon's mind as he walks home. It's quite impossible, of course, but he can’t help but entertain the idea. He thinks about the warm, jittery feeling, the butterflies in his stomach whenever Martin brings him tea… He can’t blame Tim for coming to such a conclusion. 

And he still doesn’t know why Martin is so irritating to be around. That’s what he really hates- not the man himself, but the mystery surrounding Jon’s feelings for him. Thinking back to the first day they met, there’s every reason for Jon to like him. However brusque Jon might be, he’s not ungrateful, and he’s always tried to be as logical with his emotions as possible. It just doesn’t make sense. 

Well- there is one theory that makes sense. And it’s beginning to look more and more likely.

Jon doesn’t even realise how deeply he’s spaced out until he finds himself staring at the door to his flat. He makes the conscious decision to push all thoughts of Martin away and deal with them later- for now, he has work to do. Jon unpacks his briefcase neatly on the small kitchen table, preparing to transcribe a few manuscripts onto his computer, when he hears his phone buzz.

**Sasha James:** Ha! I knew it! Jon, you are so obvious.

**Sasha James:** No offense

**Jonathan Sims:** Sasha? This is a company phone number. I’ll have to politely ask you to only use it to discuss work matters.

**Sasha James:** Okay sorry boss

**Jonathan Sims:** It’s alright.

That should settle that. It is… a bit disconcerting, two out of three of his assistants knowing how he feels. It’s a bit disconcerting to have anyone know so much about his personal life in general. Still, those are worries for another time. For now, he really should get started on- his phone buzzes again.

**Sasha James:** Is this better?

**Jonathan Sims:** How did you find this number?

**Sasha James:** My mad hacking skills

**Sasha James:** Also youre not good at hiding your personal info

**Jonathan Sims:** Okay, well, if you took the time to find my personal number, then this must be important to you.

**Jonathan Sims:** What did you need to talk about?

**Sasha James:** Oh, you know

**Sasha James:** Just your painfully obvious but still pretty adorable crush on Martin

**Jonathan Sims:** Oh god did Tim put you up to this

**Sasha James:** What? No

**Sasha James:** Like I said, youre not very good at hiding personal info

**Sasha James:** … You do like him though, right?

**Jonathan Sims:** Looking at it logically, yes, that seems a reasonable conclusion to draw.

**Sasha James:** Jon that is the most you thing you possibly could have responded with

**Jonathan Sims:** Thanks?

**Sasha James:** Youre welcome

**Sasha James:** Also I think you should shoot your shot

**Jonathan Sims:** What

**Jonathan Sims:** Sasha no

**Jonathan Sims:** Sasha no he’s my coworker

**Sasha James:** Okay jesus calm down

**Sasha James:** He obviously likes you back

**Jonathan Sims:** It’s not obvious to me

**Sasha James:** Yeah but it also took you like three weeks to parse out your own feelings for the guy, so, you know, grain of salt.

**Jonathan Sims:** In any case, I don’t think I’m ready to take any action yet.

**Jonathan Sims:** To be honest I don’t really know what to make of the situation

**Jonathan Sims:** I think I’m still… you know, I’m still figuring everything out

**Sasha James:** Yeah

**Jonathan Sims:** Thank you, Sasha.

**Jonathan Sims:** Tell Tim thank you as well.

**Sasha James:** What for

**Jonathan Sims:** Listening.

**Sasha James:** Ya no prob

**Sasha James:** See you later Jon

**Jonathan Sims:** Good night.

Jon is still breathing shakily when the conversation ends. The adrenaline of secrets revealed, both to himself and to the others, pumps through his veins. He probably won’t be sleeping anytime soon. Instead he thinks about his next move. Now that he actually knows he has a crush, it’ll be harder to hide his feelings behind the shield of disdain. He’s really a very bad liar, and it’s probably only a matter of time before Martin finds out. What he’ll do then, he has no idea. Sasha thinks the feelings are reciprocal, but that’s a lot more than Jon dares to hope.

He checks the time. It’s very late. He decides he should at least try to get some sleep, even though it’s usually a futile effort. He tries to relax, lets his mind wander, but it always comes back to curly red hair, soft skin, and freckles crinkling under a laugh. Jon falls asleep thinking about Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! some notes:  
> \- i'm imagining martin sitting in a coffee shop late at night like the beat poet from so i married an axe murderer. it's pretty fitting.  
> \- the next chapter will come out monday, march 30.  
> \- if you have suggestions or requests, please feel free to leave a comment, or you can find me on twitter @Jones_Ellie_


	3. Chapter 3

When Martin first set foot in the Magnus Institute, he didn’t really know what he was expecting. He assumed he’d probably be doing some filing, paperwork, maybe a bit of research… he also thought he was going to be found out within his first month working there. He’s not a pessimistic person, far from it, but the plan he’d concocted was precarious, to put it lightly. What Martin was definitely not expecting was to find his boss with a gaping wound in his hand, asking Martin to use the only skill he hadn’t lied about on his CV- one year of medical training. And above all, Martin really wasn’t planning on immediately developing a crush on said boss. 

It’s been almost four weeks since his first day, and he’s pretty sure Jon hates him. He hasn’t asked about it, for obvious reasons, but it doesn’t take many eye-rolls or disgruntled sighs for Martin to get the idea. He still brings Jon tea and tells him to go to sleep earlier, because quite frankly, Jon doesn’t really have a life outside of the institute, and he certainly doesn’t have any other friends. It’s not an enviable situation, but Martin doesn’t mind so much. He’s used to taking care of people who hate him. 

He asks Tim and Sasha about it at lunch one day, when Jon is still in his office.

“I don’t mean to stir up gossip,” he begins, cautiously. Tim and Sasha’s faces light up in unison. “But do you guys know why Jon… you know… why he- sort of- hates me?” Tim lets out a brash laugh.

“He doesn’t  _ hate _ you,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious conclusion in the world, “Jon just doesn’t know how to deal with having a- ow!” Martin pretends not to notice Sasha kicking Tim under the table.

“What we  _ mean _ is, Jon’s under a lot of stress, what with the state the archives are in, and having a new assistant is probably a bit overwhelming,” she corrects, “Also, Jon’s just sort of like that with new people.” She and Tim exchange meaningful glances. They’re not very good liars, but Martin thanks them anyway. 

He finishes writing up the report for the statement he’d been working on early that afternoon, so he decides to make some tea before handing it in to Jon. It’s calming, making tea, the muscle memory of it so ingrained in him that he could do it in his sleep. He makes tea a lot these days, not only to calm his nerves but also for others, in an effort to gain their friendship. Five minutes later, Martin brings the statement file and a cup of earl grey into Jon’s office.

“Hello!” he chimes, when he’s sure Jon isn’t recording, “I brought tea! And, er, and a statement I finished working on.” Jon looks up from his laptop, blinking a few times as if he’s trying to get Martin into focus. “Jon?” Martin asks, after a few seconds of silence.

“Ah! Yes, of course, you can just put those files on the desk,” he says with a start. Martin obliges, and leans over the desk to pass Jon the mug of tea. When Jon takes it- well- to say their hands brush would be an understatement. In an uncoordinated effort not to spill anything, their fingers press into each other, Jon’s skin cool and rough against Martin’s. A blush paints Jon’s cheeks, and for a moment, he seems to forget to be disdainful. 

“Th-thank you, Martin,” he stutters, “for, er, for this.” Martin nods, feeling his own face heat up more than he’d like to admit. He watches Jon take a sip of the tea, and for a split second he can see a smile begin to tug at the corners of Jon’s mouth, before he schools his face back into a neutral expression.

“Well,” he says curtly, “I’ve got to keep working, if you don’t mind.” And just like that, he’s back to being brusque and stern, and Martin feels a pang of longing for the Jon who blushes and smiles, and he wonders why he wasn’t lucky enough to know him.

Martin tries his best to make sure Jon goes home each night at a somewhat reasonable time. Unfortunately, his best isn’t much of a match for Jon’s stubborn desire to work himself to death. Long after the sun sets, Jon is still toiling away in his office, and Martin decides that he’s got to call it a night. He knocks on Jon’s office door.

“Come in,” comes the slightly disgruntled answer from inside.

“Erm, hey, I just wanted to let you know that I’m heading out.” Martin says, a little apologetically, “It’s- it’s pretty late. You should probably go home soon as well.” Jon scoffs.

“Really, Martin, how late could it-  _ oh _ .” Jon checks his watch. “Good lord, why are you still here?” He doesn’t say it unkindly, but Martin gets the message loud and clear. And maybe he’s tired, and he isn’t thinking as clearly as he should be, or maybe it has something to do with their interaction earlier today, or maybe Martin really does care about what Jon thinks, more than he’d let himself believe. Whatever the reason, he barely hesitates before he says,

“Listen, Jon, I know you don’t  _ like _ me, but you don’t have to tell me to go home just to get me out of the institute.” He regrets the words before they even leave his mouth, but he presses on. “And believe it or not, I do this because I actually  _ care  _ about you, and I’m- I’m trying to help!”

Jon blinks at him. Martin considers turning around and walking out right then and there, but something glues him to the spot. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity. Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he’s about to say something, but he can’t quite get the words out. Finally, he seems to come to a decision, and takes a deep breath.

“I- I’m sorry, Martin, I’m- I know I’ve been… less than civil, these past few weeks, it’s just, I’ve been- it’s a lot to handle, and that- it’s not an excuse, I just…” Jon seems almost frantic at this point, like he’s searching for a place for his words to land, wracking his brain for syllables that will fit in his mouth, something true and coherent that he can get through to Martin. Finally, with a hint of desperation, he croaks, “ _ I don’t hate you. _ ” And he says it with such sincerity that for a moment, Martin believes him.

“Okay,” is all he says back. He can’t think of any other way to respond. Martin turns to leave, when he’s shocked to feel Jon’s hand around his wrist. It’s not harsh, not even firm, a request made hesitantly and out of instinct.

“Wait-” Jon says softly. “Thank you. For- for caring.” Martin looks at him for a moment, then whispers,

“Any time.” They stay there, eyes locked, for a few seconds that feel like they drag on for hours. Then Jon looks down at his hand where it’s cradling Martin’s arm, as if surprised, and drops it. He clears his throat, the spell broken.

“Sorry about… that, I- I don’t know what came over me,” Jon says, eyes locked on the table. Even in the dim light of Jon’s office, Martin can see Jon’s face turn a bright crimson. He chuckles.

“It’s alright,” he replies, “I’m leaving. Try not to stay up all night.” And with that, he turns and walks out the door, before Jon can see him blush, and, more importantly, before he can spot the ridiculous smile breaking out across Martin’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! some notes:  
> \- i'm absolutely swamped with schoolwork this week, so i won't be able to upload the next chapter until monday, april 6  
> \- if you have suggestions or requests, feel free to leave a comment or you can find me on twitter @Jones_Ellie_ . thank you to everyone who has left a comment on this fic, they're so much fun to read!  
> see ya!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim should not be trusted with secrets.

It’s hard for Martin to focus on work over the next few days. Well, it’s always hard for him to focus on work, because he’d rather be doing literally anything else, and despite what Jon might think, there are plenty of things to do in the archives that don’t involve filing. Still, this week, he’s feeling especially distracted. He has to shake himself out of daydream after daydream and force his eyes onto the unlabeled manila folders scattered across his desk. And yes, Martin knows that the conversation he had with Jon didn’t mean anything, and yes, he knows that Jon's feelings towards him aren't even remotely romantic, but hey, a man can dream.

What's strange is that Jon seems to be distracted as well. More than once Martin has glanced up to see Jon staring out through the small window in his office, his gaze getting lost somewhere in the archives. Once, Martin even raised his eyes to see Jon looking directly at him, though Jon dropped his attention back to his desk in an instant. 

If he were in a different situation, if he were a different person, Martin would immediately recognize the signs of a crush. He's not thick; the longing in Jon's eyes is almost as thinly-veiled as his own. But for God's sake, he's  _ Martin _ . Romance, reciprocated feelings, things like that don't _ happen  _ to him. And as much as Martin likes him, Jon is sort of a weird person. Sure, he's acting a bit strangely, but maybe that's just because he's, you know, strange. 

"Cake in the break room!" Tim shouts, his voice cutting through the silence of the archives and wrenching Martin out of his thoughts.

"What's the celebration?" Martin asks as Tim herds everyone into the break room like a particularly energetic sheepdog.

"The  _ celebration _ is that I ran into a shop on my way back from the police station and cake was on sale," he explains cheerfully.

"...What were you doing at the police station?" Martin asks cautiously.

"Gathering information," Tim replies, winking slyly for a reason Martin can't fathom and probably wouldn't want to.

"O-okay."

"I'm going to go see if Jon is done being spooky and ask if he wants to join us," Tim calls as he walks out the door, leaving Martin and Sasha alone.

"Are you alright?" She asks, catching Martin by surprise, "You seem like you're a bit… out of it." It's not an unreasonable assumption. Martin had been so lost in his own thoughts that he'd missed lunch, and despite what he'd like to believe, he's really not very good at concealing his emotions.

"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks," he replies, "Just, er, a bit distracted." Sasha nods knowingly. It's nice, having someone ask him how he's doing. Martin wishes it wasn't such a novelty. He wishes he could tell Sasha the truth, tell her everything that's been mounting inside him for so many weeks. And standing here, in the silence, it feels like maybe he can. Martin takes a deep breath.

"I-I actually-"

"Tim, really, I have far too much work and far too little time for one of your- oh, hello Martin, Sasha." Tim is dragging Jon through the door, a triumphant grin on his face, and Martin has to quiet a little pang of jealousy at the way Tim is holding Jon's wrist.

"Hello, Jon!" Martin says, trying and failing to mask the excitement in his voice. Jon looks around in confusion.

"What's the occasion?" He inquires, "The next birthday isn't until June." 

"What?" Tim asks, "Whose birthday is in June?" Jon blushes, just a little.

"Martin's…"

Tim raises an eyebrow.

"Anyways, I seduced that cop like you asked me to-"

"I did  _ not- _ "

"Sooo, I decided it was cause for celebration!"

" _ Fine, _ " Jon surrenders, "At least you're not drinking in the archives again." Martin glances at Sasha and mouths,

"Again?"

She just stifles a giggle. 

Tim finds a plastic knife in the break room cabinet and cuts the cake, dishing it out onto paper plates. Martin reaches for the smallest piece, not seeing Jon's hand move towards the same plate. Their fingers brush, an echo of their previous interaction that makes Jon pull his arm back as if burned.

"O-oh, sorry, you can-"

"No no, y-you were there first-"

"I-I-"

Both of them are absolutely scarlet. It's ridiculous. Martin  _ knows _ that it's ridiculous, knows that he shouldn't be feeling like this. He's so accustomed to hiding his feelings, so used to crafting his personality into whatever the people around him want to see. But it's so hard to hide from Jon. Martin can't lie to him.

_ "Oh my god,"  _ Tim groans suddenly. Martin eyes him with concern and Jon shoots him a look of warning which quickly turns to horror as Tim continues, " _ Seriously _ , you two are so _ obviously _ pining for each other, it is  _ physically _ painful to witness." 

"Tim-" Sasha interjects, but he pays her no mind. His voice fills up the room, echoing around Martin's head until it feels like the floor is going to buckle under his feet.

"We all know you like each other, sorry to _ call you out _ , but I think we can all agree that it was getting to be a bit much." Tim finishes, leaning back with his arms crossed.

The silence is absolute.

"Alright, well, it's five o'clock, so I'm going to leave," Jon's voice is strangled. "If you could just- er- if you could just turn the lights out when you leave, that would be… that would be…" He seems to lose his momentum, trailing off and dazedly finding his way out the door. In over a month of working in the archives, Martin has never once known Jon to leave at five o'clock.

There's a second of silence before Sasha turns, very slowly, to face Tim.

"Er, Tim?" She asks, mock-curiosity in her voice, "What the fuck was that?"

Tim blushes slightly, though Martin's not really one to talk as he's pretty sure his face is the colour of a particularly abashed fire engine.

"I, erm, I was trying to help, but I guess I didn't really think it through…" Martin buries his face in his hands.

"I should probably go talk to him…" He groans, his tone making it clear that he would rather do anything else. Even filing. Filing sounds wonderful right about now.

"Well, you'd better go quick," Tim says, " From Jon's expression it looked like he was gonna book it out of here like he'd seen a spider in his office." 

_ It's just going to get worse the longer you wait _ , he tells himself,  _ better to just get this over with. _ Martin steels himself.

"Right." He says brusquely, standing up. "I'm going. See you guys in a bit." And with that, he sets out in search of Jon.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! some notes:  
> \- at first i was going to make this jon's birthday party, but then... well...  
> \- the next chapter will come out on wednesday, april 8. it's a good one, so stay tuned!  
> \- if you have any suggestions or requests, leave a comment or hit me up @joneselllie on twitter.


	5. Chapter 5

Jon books it out of the archives like there's a spider in his office. He clears his desk in a sweeping motion, shoving as many files into his briefcase as he can. Even in his slightly panicked state, he knows there's no way he can leave early without bringing statements to catch up on at home. Jon checks that no one is waiting outside his office- no, they all seem to be still in the break room- and half-sprints up the stairs into the institute proper. He doesn't stop to answer the questioning glances from researchers and librarians, just walks out the institute's horribly ostentatious revolving doors and sets off at a fast clip.

It's stupid. Of course it is, this crush- Jon rolls his eyes and grits his teeth at the word- is nothing more than a ridiculous inconvenience. The cat's out of the bag now, though, so the best thing he can hope to do is deal with it professionally. The manner in which he left today certainly isn't a point in his favor, but- that's fine, it's fine, he'll just have to deal with it. He begins to formulate a conversation in his head, drafting and editing and scanning over the script like he does for so many other interactions. At least, and Jon clings to this one bit of good luck, this whole ordeal has happened on a Friday, and he has a whole weekend to collect himself before talking to-

"Jon!" Jesus fucking Christ he can't catch a break can he.

"Hello, Martin," He responds, familiar iciness finding its place in his throat, "Is there something you need?" Maybe he can convince Martin to just go home and forget about it.

"Erm, I suppose… well, I guess we should, er, talk? About what just happened?" Jon considers massaging his temples to stave off his mounting headache, or perhaps taking off at a dead sprint, but he quells those instincts and takes a deep breath. He would have liked a few more days to revise, but at least he's started to prepare a few meager words. He takes a deep breath and bites the bullet.

"Yes," He begins, knowing he can't even attempt a lie, "It's true, I do have some romantic feelings for you, and though I can assure you this will not affect my actions towards you as your coworker, I will talk to Elias about granting any requests you make to be transferred out of the archives. Altogether, I will do everything I can to put this behind us." That's the way to do it. Short and- well, just short.

"Um- Okay," Martin responds meekly, "but, Jon, you know I… I like you back, right?" Jon looks straight ahead, still walking with long, swift strides so that Martin has to jog to keep up.

"Yes," he confirms, voice flat, "It seems we have found ourselves in quite a predicament, Martin." Martin gives him a look, like he's trying to parse out whether Jon is joking or not, but he doesn't get the chance to decide because that's when Jon's foot hits the pavement at just the wrong angle and his ankle buckles beneath him. A hot pain shoots up Jon's leg, as if something is stretching and ready to snap, and his hands search unbidden for anything to hold onto. Tragically, they find Martin. 

"Christ, Jon are you alright?!" He exclaims, strong hands reaching out to steady him.

"Yes," Jon lies, too focused on the pain to work a sufficient amount of disdain into his tone. It might not have been so bad if Jon wasn't wearing heels, or if he wasn't walking so goddamn fast, but neither of those things were the case.

"Are you sure?" Martin asks, unconvinced, "That looked… pretty bad."

"Is that your official medical opinion?" Jon shoots back, allowing the venom to seep into his voice.

"I mean- I don't know, but you probably shouldn't walk on it." Martin's voice is soft and edged with something approaching concern. "I could- if you wanted, I could help you to your flat? O-or if that's too weird, I could call a taxi…" Jon takes a moment to consider the offer. It's not ideal, and he shudders to admit it, but Martin is probably right. So, slowly, carefully, he places his hand in Martin's outstretched palm and leans on him for support.

They walk like that, stewing in half-comfortable silence while Jon's reflexes war in his head, telling him to lean in and let go in equal measure. He's feeling slightly better when they reach Jon's flat, though that might just be the fluttery warmth of being near Martin. He's a natural painkiller.

"Thank you, I- Thank you." Jon says, leaning against the doorframe. Martin looks down, his face coloured with pink.

"Yeah," he mumbles, "No problem."

Jon turns, opens his door, takes a step into his flat, and then Martin speaks up again.

"I, I just want to make sure we're… on the same page about this," He stammers.

"About what?"

"I mean- you know, whether we want to take this any further?" Martin's voice is nervous, stuttering like when he turns in an investigation that hasn't received due diligence.

"Take _ what _ any further, Martin, you're going to have to be more specific." It's a lie. Jon knows what he's talking about; despite all appearances he isn't stupid. But he needs to know where Martin stands, needs to know if he actually wants this. And maybe, just a little, Jon is stalling, and hastily drafting another script in his mind. Martin heaves an exasperated sigh, tinged with something else Jon can't place.

"Do you- do you want to go out with me?" He says it like a genuine question, rather than a proposal. Martin's voice is so soft that Jon can barely hear him, but when he does he can't stop the words bubbling up his throat and he blurts out,

"You  _ actually  _ want to go on a date with me?!" Martin looks at him, confused.

"Y-yes? I mean, that's traditionally the point of having a- of having feelings for someone?" Jon's mind is racing. He'd assumed that Martin's crush was unwanted, some annoying decision of the subconscious that was shunned by the conscious mind. After all, who would _ want _ to have a crush on Jon? All of Jon's scripts and preparations have been rendered useless; he's written a eulogy to read at a birthday party.

"I- erm…" Jon has always been terrible at improvising. "If that's- if that's what you want, then, erm, I think that would be nice." 

"You don't sound so sure," Martin says, though there's more amusement in his voice than suspicion.

"I- sorry, I'm just- surprised, I suppose," Jon responds, trying his best to let a small laugh escape with the words. Martin stares at him for a moment.

"Well I guess I'll- I'll text you," he says, seeming just a little bit dazed.

"Yes," Jon replies, feeling much the same way.

"See you later."

"Goodbye, Martin." 

Jon closes the door and leans his back against it, sliding down to sit on the floor and trying to ignore the butterflies that have taken up residence in his stomach. A date. It's been a while since he's had one of those. He thinks back to the night he first recognised his feelings for what they were, the only time he's ever seen Martin outside of the archives. And Jon knows exactly where to take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Some notes:  
> \- Jon wears heels to work so he can be taller no i do not take constructive criticism  
> \- the next chapter will come out on Saturday, April 11  
> \- if you have any suggestions or requests feel free to leave a comment also you can find me on twitter @joneselllie  
> \- see ya!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: worms

There's only one hour until Martin's date (date!!) with Jon, and his nerves are shockingly intact. Maybe, if his brain could process the phrase "I am going out with Jonathan Sims" as a coherent piece of information instead of a strange jumble of misplaced syllables, he would be sweating bullets, but as it is he hasn't really processed it yet. So, mercifully free from anxiety but no less excited, Martin selects an outfit and sets out for the first date (date!!!) he’s had in years.

Or at least, he tries to. He tries very hard to, actually. But it seems there’s something blocking the door to his flat. Martin is not a weak man, but no matter how hard he pushes, the door simply won’t budge. He doesn’t have a peephole, never got one installed, so he can’t even begin to guess what’s on the other side. He catches a whiff of a strange smell, though, leaking in from the hallway. He presses his ear to the door, but if the thing on the other side is making any noise then it’s muffled by the wood. Finally, with a sudden apprehension he can’t trace the origins of, Martin lies down on the floor and presses his eye to the crack under the door. The hallway is dark; either the hallway lights have blown or whatever’s blocking the door is also blocking Martin’s view. But now Martin can hear it, a sickening, wet squirming noise coming from outside. The sound swells and recedes, a throbbing crescendo and decrescendo. It almost sounds like breathing. Martin’s hands tremble as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket, turning on the torch function. He brings it slowly up to shine out into the hallway- and catches only a glimpse of the other side before three pitted, oozing fingers shoot out from under the door and snatch his phone out of his shaking grip.

Jon checks his watch again. There are still a few minutes until when he and Martin have agreed to meet. He scans the street outside the cafe- still nothing. He considers sending Martin a text to ask if he’s alright- but no. That would almost certainly come off as if Jon was annoyed. Most things tend to come off as if Jon was annoyed. Jon sighs, tapping his fingers restlessly, when suddenly his phone buzzes.

**Martin Blackwood:** Helloooo, Archivvvisst

**Martin Blackwood:** I amm afraidd I will hhhave to ppposstpone ourr “daaate” toodayy

**Jonathan Sims:** Martin?

**Jonathan Sims:** Are you alright?

**Martin Blackwood:** Nnno!

**Martin Blackwood:** I’’’ve TTAKEN ILLLL!!

**Martin Blackwood:** Hhhhahaahahahha

**Martin Blackwood:** It’sss ffunny bbbecause it’ss truue

**Jonathan Sims:** Why do you keep repeating letters?

**Martin Blackwood:** I guuess mmmy keysss mussst bbe sticckky  ¯\\_((((ツ)_/¯

**Martin Blackwood:** Ewww ddon’’t comppell mme

**Jonathan Sims:** ...Okay. I’ll keep it in mind.

**Jonathan Sims:** Get well soon.

Jon suppresses a feeling of disappointment, as well as a shudder for some reason and stands to leave. Whatever’s going on with Martin, he clearly isn’t coming. He orders a coffee to go and steps out into the chilly morning air, when his phone buzzes again.

**Sasha James:** Um, hey guys, I don’t know if he’s texted you yet, but I think Martin’s been hacked.

**Sasha James:** Jon, that means someone has gained access to his passwords and personal accounts.

**Jonathan Sims:** I know what being hacked means, Sasha.

**Timothy Stoker:** sure u do, boss ;)

Martin chokes back a scream and scuttles away from the door, not stopping until he feels his back press against the wall. He swallows his terror and dashes to the linen closet, grabbing as many towels as he can and stuffing them into the cracks around the door. His skin crawls just from being near the awful writhing mass, but if it won't let him out, he is _ certainly _ not letting it in. Without his phone, he can't call the police, so he opens his laptop, keeping one eye on the door. As fast as he can, Martin types out a message to Jon, Tim, and Sasha.  _ Jane Prentiss @ my flat I think. Not a joke. Send police.  _ His index finger hovers over the 'send' button. What if they don't believe him? What if they think he's overreacting? What if they simply don't care? It's only a moment's hesitation, more of a reflex than a conscious decision, but a moment is enough. When the power is cut it doesn't flicker, doesn't sputter, but simply dies, leaving Martin alone in the pitch blackness. Well. Maybe not entirely alone.

The first thing he does is scream. Martin's not afraid to admit it. He's read the statements, he knows what happens next. He can't drag his mind away from the sea of undulating filth in the hallway- what he had first thought were disembodied intestines and other viscera were quickly revealed to be millions of squirming, crawling maggots, all moving as one. As soon as he saw the horrible, hole-filled fingers, nothing but skin and worms, he knew the name of the thing that had come for him. He's received enough warnings from Jon and Elias. It had to be Jane Prentiss.

**Martin Blackwood:** Iiit wass supppossed to bee youuu, yyou kknow

**Martin Blackwood:** I’vvve jusst nnever hhad very gggood eyessight

**Martin Blackwood:** Youu know,,, beeacause I donn’’’t hhave eyyyes

**Jonathan Sims:** So, what, you were trying to “hack” me, too?

**Martin Blackwood:** Whhhat? Nooo.

**Martin Blackwood:** Thhiss isss juust a funky litttle sside husttle

**Martin Blackwood:** Yyyou likke funkky litttle sidde huuustles ddon’’t yyou Archhivist???

**Jonathan Sims:** I have a single, stable job where I spend 90% of my time, so not really.

**Jonathan Sims:** Why do you keep calling me “Archivist”?

**Martin Blackwood:** bECCAUSSE ITT IS YOUUR TITTTLE aaRCHHIVIST!!!!!!

**Jonathan Sims:** Good lord, there is no need for the drama.

**Martin Blackwood:** Ooooops my shhhift kkey waas stuckk

Back in his flat, Jon presses his face into his palms. Talking to- to whoever this person is is exhausting. He blocks Martin’s number for the time being and texts Tim and Sasha suggesting they do the same, then pulls out a statement to record. Just looking at the name of the statement-giver, Jon knows it won’t record to his laptop, so he takes the tape recorder out of his bag. He doesn’t remember packing it, but considering the hurry that he left in, that’s not really surprising. Jon clears his throat.

“Statement of Jane Prentiss,” He begins, “regarding a wasps nest in her attic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! some notes:  
> \- tragically i have a disease where if i don't write little a horror as a treat every once in a while i will spontaneously combust. next chapter will have a lot of prentiss content  
> \- the phrase "nothing but skin and worms" was meant to be horrific but it's simply hilarious to me. Jane, darling, you must eat more, you are nothing but skin and worms!  
> \- the next chapter will come out on monday, april 13  
> \- if you have suggestions or fic requests, leave a comment or bother me on twitter @joneselllie  
> \- see ya!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: worms, also Jane says some pretty nasty things to Martin

“S-statement ends,” Jon hears himself say. “That was- I think- there’s a lot going on right now. Erm, Miss Prentiss was taken to the Emergency Department at Whittington Hospital after police responded to sounds of screaming at her flat on Prospero Road. The ensuing incident resulted in the death of six hospital personnel- five by… colonisation, and one by breaking his neck in an attempt to flee.” Jon sighs deeply, his lungs trying to remind themselves what clean air tastes like. “There is nothing to support the idea that the parasite infecting Jane Prentiss is actually supernatural. It could be some sort of unclassified aggressive parasite. Moreover, I seriously doubt that this statement could have been given by a well-winded individual... but, for what it’s worth, I believe in the truth of this statement.” He pauses, lost in his thoughts for a moment. “No, even that’s not quite right. I know it’s real. I can feel it. Sometimes, the statements… I know that this is paranormal.” He lets out a bark of harsh laughter. “I’ve been getting that feeling a lot these days. I suppose- recording ends.”

One day after he is attacked by Jane Prentiss, Martin gets his phone back. Elated, he has to stop himself from sprinting over when Prentiss slides it under his door. It could, of course, be some sort of trap, so Martin uses several layers of plastic grocery bags as makeshift gloves when he carefully picks it up off of the floor.   
The phone is surprisingly clean, and a cursory examination reveals that it’s still in working condition. The only thing that seems amiss is the dark, putrid stain covering a small portion of the screen. Still wearing the plastic bags on his hands, Martin opens the phone app with shaky hands, ready to dial the police. The stain, precisely placed, covers the ‘9’ button. Of course, Martin knows it couldn’t be that simple, but it still makes him breathe a little quicker. He tries calling Jon first, heart beating fast as the ringtone fills his ears. Martin didn’t sleep last night. He barely eats, only daring to turn his gaze from the flimsy door for a few moments at a time. He would have thought being trapped in his flat would be excruciatingly boring, but every moment is more terrifying than the last. He feels like he's suffocating, sometimes, drowning in the knowledge of the thing that lurks just behind his door. Reading statements, learning about Prentiss was supposed to protect him, but now it only provides fuel for his anxiety. Knowing didn't save anyone. The line rings out, and Martin lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.  
Tim and Sasha don’t pick up. Neither does the institute front desk, but that probably has more to do with the fact that it’s 10 pm on a Sunday. He tries calling his mother, and the line cuts off after three rings, but he doesn’t think that has anything to do with Prentiss either. Then he looks at his text messages and realises why no one is answering.

Martin Blackwood: Ooooops my shhhift kkey waas stuckk  
Martin Blackwood: Helloooo??  
Martin Blackwood: Aaarchivisst???  
Martin Blackwood: Thiss isn’’’t ffun annymore :((((  
Martin Blackwood: Jon? Jon it’s actually me now  
Martin Blackwood: The thing that used to be Jane Prentiss is at my flat, I can’t get out  
Martin Blackwood: Can you call the police? Or the ecdc or something?

“They have abandoned you,” comes a voice that makes Martin nearly leap out of his skin, “They are all gone, they have all forsaken you. Everyone has forgotten about you. Everyone except me.” It is not merely a voice; it is a chorus; it is a hymn. It sounds like a thousand singers crying out of tune, the noise leaking out through holes in the thing’s throat, its voice box.  
“Humanity is so terribly lonely,” it croons, “You are always hiding and lying and pretending you are not revolting. What is humanity but a denial of the flesh, of blood and bile and mucus? You are terrified, you are disgusted by me, and in a sea of ten thousand living things you are the only one who feels that way.” It pauses, and in the silence Martin can hear the slow, wet breathing of the hive against his feverish panting. “Join us,” It breathes, in a voice more gentle than anything that has ever been directed at Martin. “And be lonely no longer.”  
“Stop it,” Martin whispers, both to himself and the creature in the hall, “Stop.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Jon says nervously, “I don’t think we should’ve brought the axe.”  
“Jon, you’re the one who suggested going over there,” Sasha replies, a slight quiver in her voice, “And you’re the one who said it might be dangerous.” It’s Monday, one o’clock, and the archive employees have decided to check in on Martin.  
“I still don’t understand why all three of us had to go,” Tim says, though there’s no real annoyance in his voice, “Not that I’m complaining about an excuse to get out of the office,” He adds with a smirk.  
“We still don’t know exactly what’s going on, and the circumstances are… strange,” Jon explains, “Better to be safe than sorry.”  
They walk in silence until they reach Martin’s building, and Jon ignores the pain in his ankle as they climb the stairs. He didn’t sleep last night, unable to shake the feeling of dread practically emanating off of Jane Prentiss’s statement. He tells himself that was the only source of his worry. The three of them make it to Martin’s floor and Jon steps forward to open the door leading into the hallway. And suddenly it hits him like a punch in the stomach. That feeling, that knowledge that whatever is waiting on the other side is deeply, deeply wrong. It feels like he’s being observed, watched by some impatient viewer that skips over all the mundane parts of his life and straight to the interesting ones. His hands are shaking where they hover above the handle of the door, and a part of him screams in desperation to turn around, go back, leave. He almost does. Then, in a swift, decisive movement, Sasha surges forward and opens the door, and Jon can think of nothing but the scene in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! a few notes:  
> \- the next chapter will come out thursday, april 16  
> \- if you have suggestions or requests, you can leave a comment or find me on twitter @joneselllie  
> \- see ya!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: worms/ gore

The first thing that hits them is the smell. It's putrid, and mossy, and sickly sweet in a way that makes Jon's throat prickle and his eyes sting. The vague certainty of the paranormal is no longer vague; it has a subject, a reason, a direction, and it latches onto that awful scent like a virus to a host. He spots the roughly human form among the squirming mass and a terrible shiver runs down his spine. The sight makes him want to peel away his skin, rip away his flesh and organs and anything that might be burrowed into until he is nothing but impenetrable bone. It would, Jon thinks, be better to die than to become a home for this crawling filth. His fingers twitch, and it takes incredible self-control not to start scratching at his skin.

Something is knocking on Martin’s door. The same something has been knocking on Martin’s door for a little over two days. It’s polite, unhurried, and it fills him with the deepest dread. He’s sent Jon, Tim, and Sasha countless texts, called them until his phone went dead, and even tried just screaming for help in the hopes that a neighbor might hear, but it seems the thing inhabiting Jane Prentiss’s body was right. He is utterly alone, except for it. And he considers its offer. He considers it more than he feels comfortable admitting; how nice it would feel to be wanted and loved by the things that writhe on the other side of his door. The million terrible things that knock. How nice-

All of a sudden, Martin’s thoughts are interrupted and he shakes himself back to consciousness. The knocking is different, more intense, somehow, almost frenzied. Feeling fresh terror seep into his bones, Martin looks wildly around for a weapon, finds a bread knife on his counter. It feels pathetically useless against the thousands upon thousands of maggots waiting to devour him, and he keeps searching for something more adequate even though he knows that it’s futile. If the creature- creatures have decided to finally claim him, then there is nothing he can do to stop them. The knocking grows louder until it is nearly deafening, and it is joined by a dull, gradual splintering.  _ It’s going to break down my door _ , Martin realises. He glances at the fire escape, but the window overlooking it is opaque with worms. Out of options and out of time, Martin faces the door and brandishes his flimsy blade. He closes his eyes as the banging reaches its climax, until finally, the figure crashes through the jagged remains of the door. Martin opens one eye, just a sliver, so that he can see his horrible fate. But- it’s not Prentiss. The figure is- it’s Tim, hefting an axe over one shoulder and flanked by Jon and Sasha, both of whom are armed with fire extinguishers. That’s… that’s certainly not what Martin was expecting. He blinks at them and shakes his head, sure that this must be some sort of stress-induced hallucination, but the three of them remain as solid as ever. He might be elated if he weren’t so shocked. Jon rushes forward through the doorway, stopping just short of Martin and looking him up and down with a worried expression as if Jon expects him to be full of holes.

“I- Jon?” Martin breathes, still incredulous.

“Martin, a-are you alright?” Jon asks, like he’s nervous about the answer. He stops scanning Martin’s body for worms and looks straight into his eyes. Martin looks back.

“I am now,” Martin whispers. He’s not sure why he’s being so quiet, but Jon’s voice is just as soft. This feels intimate somehow, like the words they’re saying deserve to exist only between the two of them, treated with care and reverence. “I was-”

“Oi!” Sasha’s voice cuts through the air. “Save sappy reunion time for later, boys, we’ve got worms to escape from!” Jon whirls around with a start to face Sasha.

“Right,” He says, voice shaky, “Sasha, you and Tim can lead us out of here. Then Martin, a-and I’ll bring up the rear. And if you see any worms-”

“They get the axe!” Tim chimes in, swinging his weapon.

“No, Tim, you spray them with as much CO 2  as you can," Jon corrects him flatly.

“Wait- CO 2 ?” Martin asks, “Why?”

“I-it kills the worms,” Jon explains, “That’s the only way we were able to get here.”

“And the gas cans are almost empty, so we  _ really  _ have to go before the worms come back,” Sasha says nervously. Jon nods sharply at her, then at Martin, and the four of them take a collective deep breath and step out into the hallway.

The air is stuffy and humid, and the floor is carpeted in asphyxiated worm carcasses. The hallway is almost oppressively quiet. Martin has to wonder where all his neighbors are--did Prentiss kill them? Did they all manage to escape and leave Martin behind? There’s a chance no one even lives in the other flats; he’s never been one to socialise with his neighbors, so he doesn’t know the first thing about the other people in his building. He tries to ponder these questions to distract himself from the gnawing terror in his gut and the revulsion that swells within him whenever he sees a worm, but they really only serve to make the building feel eerily empty. The four of them make their way to the stairwell, glancing over their shoulders every few seconds and dousing the occasional worm in gas. Sasha places her hand on the door, when-

“Stop!” Jon cries. Everyone turns around to face him, and his face is very pale. “I don’t think- I don’t think we should open that door.” He says in a trembling voice. “I just- there’s something… awful. Behind it. I know there is.” Sasha and Tim eye him warily.

“There’s another stairwell on the other side of the building,” Martin offers, “We- we could use that one.” Jon shoots Tim and Sasha a pleading glance.

“Alright,” Sasha concedes, “I’m going to take your word on this one, Jon.”

“If I get eaten by worms, I’m blaming you!” Tim says cheerily. Martin thinks the gas might be getting to him.

The further they get from Martin’s flat, the fewer worms there are, but that doesn’t stop Martin from wanting to throw up every time he sees one. Martin doesn’t have a fire extinguisher, so he stomps mercilessly on every squirming maggot he lays eyes on. They pop like putrid water balloons under his feet, soaking the carpet in a viscous liquid. Who puts carpet in a building like this? By the time they make it to the other stairwell, there are hardly any worms at all, though the smell of decay is as thick as ever. The stairs are, mercifully, made of concrete, and they seem almost pristine in comparison to the soft, moist hallway, dust and cigarette butts notwithstanding. The four of them practically sprint down the stairs, eager to get out into fresh air, and they make it to the ground floor in a matter of seconds. They stop abruptly, just short of the exit, and Sasha’s hand hovers above the door that leads out into the street, as if waiting for some other horror to stand in the way of their escape. But after a moment’s hesitation, nothing does, so she heaves open the door, and the four of them tumble out into the street.

Jon presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, blocking out every shred of light. It’s not very creative, as far as defenses against oppressive feelings of being watched go, but he finds himself unable to resist the infantile logic. If he can’t see them, they can’t see him. The feeling persists, of course, but Jon would be lying if he said it didn’t feel good to rest his eyes.

He’s back in the archives, ignoring his assistants’ advice to go home. It feels… right, to be down here, amongst the dusty files and aging paper. Jon has probably slept here more times than he’s slept in his flat these past few months, much to Martin’s dismay. Martin. Jon should probably go check on him. 

Unlike Tim and Sasha, Martin did not go home, for obvious reasons. He’s sat at his desk, staring into his mug of tea, and he nearly leaps out of his skin when Jon taps him on the shoulder.

“Ah, I- sorry,” Jon apologises.

“No- no, it’s fine, just- jumpy, you know?” Martin says with a humorless chuckle.

“Yes…”

“Erm, so, did you… need anything?” Martin asks, tilting his head a bit in curiosity.

“I, er, I just wanted to see- see how you were doing,” Jon stammers, unsure of where to start, “And also- I suppose- to- to make you an offer?” He adds. He can’t quite stop his voice from rising in pitch at the end. Jon- he isn’t good at this, he isn’t used to caring about people. Or, rather, he’s very used to caring about people and he just never acts on it.

“Okay,” Martin replies expectantly. Jon wrings his hands.

“There’s an old cot in document storage,” He begins, “You- I mean, I doubt you really want to go back to your flat, so you could… you could sleep there. Temporarily. Until you find somewhere else to stay.” It’s hard to push the words out of his mouth; they all have jagged edges and it feels as if they’re burning in his throat. But it’s better to get them out there than to leave them festering in his lungs. It’s strange- even now, when Martin knows about his feelings and even reciprocates them to some degree or another, Jon still has to force himself to show emotion.

“I’d- yeah, I actually think I’ll take you up on that,” Martin responds, his face a mask of thinly-veiled surprise. “To be honest, I didn’t really think you’d take this so seriously.”

“I- what?” Jon is somewhat taken aback. “I was  _ there _ , Martin, a-and  _ you  _ were there, what did you think I was going to do?” Martin shrugs and looks back down at his desk.

“I don’t know, I guess- I hear you recording the statements, and you always just- dismiss them, like there’s no way they could possibly be real,” He murmurs, “I was half convinced you were going to tell me all those worms were just- I don’t know, aggressive, unclassified parasites.”

“I mean, to be fair, there is every possibility that they are just aggressive, unclassified- er,” Jon cuts himself off. “But, in any case, they are dangerous, and that’s- I don’t want to put you in any danger.” Jon tries to let his voice soften at the end there, but it ends up just sounding pained. Martin looks back up at him, meeting his gaze.

“Sure,” He replies, “Thanks, Jon.” And maybe Jon is imagining it, but he thinks he hears a hint of fondness in Martin’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! some notes:  
> \- sorry for the abrupt ending; this was originally going to be longer but it was getting so long i decided to cut it off here  
> \- these past few chapters have been mostly prentiss-centric but don't worry we will dive headfirst back into fluff next chapter  
> \- speaking of next chapter, that will come out sunday, april 19  
> \- if you have suggestions or requests, leave a comment or hit me up on twitter @joneselllie  
> \- see ya!


	9. Chapter 9

Martin finishes tucking the corner of a fresh sheet into the cot in document storage and stands back to survey his handiwork. The cramped, musty storage room is far from ideal, but it’s well sealed and, at least in theory, safe, so he can’t really complain. Still, it doesn’t stop a shiver running down his spine at the stuffy atmosphere. He’s had quite enough of being trapped indoors.

With this in mind, Martin makes his way out of the archives and up to the small courtyard on the Institute’s first floor to get some fresh air. 

It’s very late, and the only thing illuminating the courtyard is the soft glow of the moon, diffused by fog and pollution. The air is warm, the heat just beginning to taper off as a cool breeze sweeps through the courtyard. It puts Martin in mind of summer nights when he was a teenager, writing poetry in his bedroom as the chatter of the city drifted in through his open window. Looking around at the darkened windows surrounding him, Martin can tell that everyone in the institute has gone home. There aren’t even any security guards, as Elias assures them that “The Institute is under constant surveillance,” whatever that means. Martin is alone. Well- almost. At the other end of the courtyard, he can see another figure leaning against a bench and staring at a burning object on the concrete ground. Alarmed, Martin moves closer and sees that- incredibly- it’s Jon, his eyes distant and shining in the dim firelight.

“Engaging in a little light arson, are we?” Martin asks, startling Jon out of his thoughts. 

“Good lord, Martin,” Jon gasps, “Don’t do that; you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“Alright.” They are both silent for a moment.

“They’re the clothes I was wearing. To- to your flat,” Jon says out of the blue.

“Sorry?” Martin asks, confused. Jon indicates the pile of burning fabric.

“I thought it would be fine, that I would just wait until I got home to burn them, but I-” his voice falters a bit. “I felt like there was something…  _ writhing  _ around in there, and…” he abandons the sentence, pushing his glasses on top of his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. Suddenly, Martin is struck with a question.

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

“What?”

“When you saw that I was being trapped by Jane Prentiss- why didn’t you call the police?” Jon looks down at the floor.

“I, er, well I was a bit worried because we weren’t exactly-” Jon clears his throat and tries again, “We weren’t exactly in the building  _ legally _ -”

“ _ You broke into my flat?! _ ”

“Your  _ building _ , Martin, and besides, it’s not like you were going to buzz us in!” 

Despite himself, Martin feels a shocked laugh bubble up from his chest.

“Wow, arson, trespassing- what’s next, robbing a bank?” Martin quips, “Quite the criminal you are, Mr. Sims.” Jon laughs sheepishly.

“I suppose my conduct has not been as spotless as I would like,” He agrees. There’s a moment of silence, then Martin takes a deep breath and looks down at his feet.

“Thank you. For coming to make sure I was alright, I mean,” He says quietly.

“It’s nothing,” Jon mumbles back.

“It’s not nothing,” Martin says, “You really didn’t have to do that-”

“ _ Of course I did _ .” Jon whirls around to face him, taking hold of Martin’s shoulders and turning them so that he and Jon are face-to-face. “I wasn’t- I wasn’t going to let you- I wasn’t going to let anything happen to you,” Jon says. “I know I’m- I’m terrible at showing it, but I- I... care about you.” He says it agonizingly slowly, as if the words are going to destroy him from the inside out, and suddenly Martin realises just how close the two of them are, Jon’s hands still grasping his shoulders. Jon’s eyes dart around Martin’s face, almost frantically. That’s how he always looks at Martin, searching, searching, searching, as if he’ll find the answers to all of life’s questions written on Martin’s skin if only he looks hard enough.

Lips parted, eyes locked, Martin tries to ask a question with his gaze- to funnel all his yearning and uncertainty into two sclerae, two irises, two pupils. Deep down he knows Jon’s eyes are asking the same question.

“Jon, I-” Martin’s voice is saturated with pure, aching longing, and he doesn’t even know what he’s going to say, but it doesn’t matter because then Jon is kissing him. All at once the tension and uncertainty and longing are nothing but a horrible dream, a different reality that this simple, wonderful action has ensured they will never return to. But right now Martin doesn’t think about dreams or realities, all he thinks about are Jon’s lips against his own, and Jon’s hair between his fingers, and Jon’s hands on his waist. Jon pulls back, just a bit, looking into Martin’s eyes as if to make sure he did the right thing. Martin kisses the last vestiges of uncertainty off his face. He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. At some point Jon takes off Martin’s glasses and Martin undoes the bun in Jon’s hair, and slowly they relax against each other. Finally, Martin pulls away with a sigh and leans his head on Jon’s collarbone., a comfortable silence overtaking them.

So much of the past three days has been experiencing things that Martin had thought were too horrible to exist. His mind had short-circuited around them, as if trying to decide whether he had time to be in denial before he was pitted and hollowed out. Now, being here with Jon, he’s experiencing another thing he told himself was impossible. But Martin’s not going to deny this. Jon places an arm around him, resting his head on top of Martin’s, and together they watch the fire burn itself out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! some notes:  
> \- i still don't have a chapter plan for this because tbh i was planning on just making this a one-shot, but i think we're probably nearing the end of this fic. I'll definitely be posting at least two more chapters and maybe a third  
> \- if you have any suggestions or requests, feel free to leave a comment or hit me up on twitter @joneselllie  
> \- the next chapter will come out wednesday, april 22  
> \- see ya!


	10. Chapter 10

Jonathan Sims is not a romantic person. He doesn't like hearing about the dramatic love lives of other people; he doesn’t believe in soulmates. He’s always just thought that all of it- romance, love, other phrases that showed up in terrible low-budget Christmas films- aren’t really meant for him. So, naturally, it’s a bit of a shock when in just over a month he finds himself falling head over heels for Martin Blackwood. It’s terrifying, the feeling that has welled up inside him, like he’s barreling down a mountain in a car with no breaks and the only thing he can do is hold on and hope- but it’s also nice. Jon can’t deny the warm rush of adrenaline he gets from the vertigo.

Being around Martin also… helps, with the feeling of being watched. The creeping sensation has been growing more intense lately, but it always seems to subside when Martin’s around. Whatever the possibly-imagined voyeur might want, it seems to be just as uninterested in Jon’s romantic life as Jon himself used to be.

That’s why it’s especially worrying when he’s eating lunch with Martin in the break room one day and he feels the hairs on his arms begin to stand up. 

“Jon? Are you alright?” Martin asks, concern plain on his face as Jon visibly pales. Tim and Sasha have gone out to lunch together, and the two of them are on their own.

“Erm, no,” Jon croaks, “I just… um…” It’s really only then that he realises just how hard it is to describe the watched-feelings to anyone without sounding crazy. It is, of course, entirely possible that the sensation is all in his head- though it’s a good enough predictor of which statements won’t record digitally that he’s begun to trust it almost without hesitation.  _ Your spidey-sense _ , his mind supplies eagerly, and he suppresses a shudder at the thought.

“I- I’ll explain it to you later,” Jon says, finding his way back to his train of thought. The watched-feeling, held briefly at bay by his distraction, returns in a wave of terror and he’s suddenly much more alert. “Right, there’s- there’s something…” Jon glances around frantically until his eyes settle on the door, and he feels his breath quicken. “There’s something outside.” Martin still looks worried and more than a little bit confused.

“Jon, are you-” then, suddenly, a look of realisation passes over his face and his eyes go wide. “Wait- is this- is this like the time with Prentiss?” He asks, as if he would do anything not to hear the answer.

“Yes, a- a bit,” Jon says, taking an instinctive step back from the door, “But it might not be her. It could be… other things.” He feels his blood run cold at the thought of two grotesquely spindly limbs reaching through the door and snatching him up in the blink of an eye. Or Martin. He’s not sure which would be worse.

“Okay,” Martin says, and Jon can hear his voice growing thick with tamped-down panic, “So what do we do?” There’s a moment of silence. “Jon? Jon, what do we do?”

And Jon… he doesn’t know. He has no earthly clue. He hates that not-knowing, hates it in a way that feels fiery and primal, and all at once he is _so_ _angry_. He’s angry with the vague, passive watcher that uses Jon as his personal fucking snuff film, angry with Jane Prentiss just for having the audacity to exist, angry even at Tim, Sasha, and Martin for giving him something to protect, giving him a reason to care. Most of all, he’s angry with himself for having no goddamn idea what to do about all of it. He feels the anger course through his veins, starting in his chest and shooting through his limbs, slamming into his fingers. It’s not the desire to do violence, or to hurt someone, it’s just the burning, unquenchable _need_ to do _something_ , to have literally any scrap of knowledge about the situation. In one swift motion, barely registering his own movements, he grabs the kitchen knife off of the counter and wrenches the door open. He realises it’s a terrible idea, possibly the worst he’s ever had in his life, but he can’t help it. He _needs to know._ The door seems to move in slow motion, even though Jon had hurled it open with every ounce of strength that he could muster. Jon looks out into the archives, desperately searching for the source of his terror, until he looks down at his feet and sees-

And sees a single worm.

Under normal circumstances, the sight of even one flesh-burrowing, pus-oozing maggot would be considered extremely concerning, but considering what Jon had expected this feels like a minor inconvenience at worst. He crushes the thing without hesitation, grinding it beneath his heel and feeling immensely grateful that the institute has never invested in carpeting. And it is only then that it sets in how lucky he is, as well as the utter idiocy of his actions. 

“Jon, that was so  _ fucking  _ st- oh.” Martin says, noticing the vaguely worm-shaped stain on the floor.

“I- I know, I was- I don’t even know what came over me, I just- I just  _ hated  _ my-” Jon cuts himself off, still a little bit dazed. He pauses for a moment, trying to devise a way to excuse his actions without telling Martin about his… intuition. He can’t think of one. “I suppose I’d better explain some things,” he finally says with a sigh. Martin looks a little bit incredulous for a moment, as if that was obvious, but he must see the weariness in Jon’s eyes because his face softens.

“I’ll make us a cup of tea,” he says.

“So, you feel like you’re being watched every time you record a statement that’s real- erm- really unwilling to record digitally,” Martin says carefully, “and you think it applies to real-life events as well?”

“It’s stupid, I know,” Jon says dissmissively, “That’s just… the easiest way to explain it. I mean, all of the… problematic statements have a roughly similar sort of syntax to them, so I’m probably just getting the hang of knowing which ones are which, and as for Prentiss-” He thinks for a moment. “Well, she has a very distinctive smell, so perhaps I was aware of her presence subconsciously and the watched-feeling was just my mind’s way of rationalising it.” Jon pauses again, thinking, and then his eyebrows shoot up as he has an epiphany. “Carbon monoxide poisoning!”

“I- sorry?” Martin asks bewilderedly.

“Symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning include the feeling of being watched, as well as a deep sense of dread- though I suspect the dread is just from being head archivist in an archive that is treated more like a dumping ground than a place of knowledge,” He explains, eyes gleaming. Martin looks like he’s trying to cut in, but Jon’s got a theory now, and he can’t stop his mind from racing. “And- and it makes sense that I would have it the worst, because I spend the most time here, followed by Elias, which would actually explain quite a lot, and-”

“Jon!” Martin exclaims, cutting off Jon’s stream of thoughts abruptly. “It- it isn’t a gas leak. Elias had some people come in and test for a bunch of stuff, including carbon monoxide, over the weekend. I was there,” he says gently. Jon feels his breath catch slightly in his throat. He rests his head in his hands, fingers rubbing small circles into his temples.

“Fuck,” he breathes, “maybe I’m just going crazy.” Martin sighs exasperatedly.

“ _ Why _ do you  _ do  _ that?”

“Do what?”

“Push the skeptic thing  _ so  _ hard, I mean you literally just explained that you have, what, clairvoyant fear powers, and now you’re just trying to come up with reasons  _ not  _ to believe-”

“Of  _ course _ I  _ believe _ ,” Jon interrupts.

“Then  _ why- _ ”

“ _ Because I’m scared, Martin! _ ” Jon blurts out without really meaning to, “I just thought- if- if it was something tangible, something  _ real _ , then at least I know how to make it stop.” Martin hesitates for a moment before stretching his hand out to the middle of the table. Jon takes it.

“Jon,” He says, his voice thick with concern, “I wish- I wish I could help.” Jon smiles, small and exhausted but still there. He presses a kiss to the back of Martin’s hand.

“Don’t worry,” he assures him, “You already do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! some notes:  
> \- lmao i didn't realize how many times i said fuck in this chapter. it's dramatic, what can i say  
> \- the next chapter will come out on saturday, april 25  
> \- if you have any suggestions or requests, leave a comment or come find me on twitter @joneselllie  
> \- see ya!


	11. Chapter 11

“You can’t stay in the archives anymore.” Martin looks up from his desk with a start to see Jon standing over him.

“Sorry?”

“You- Elias has been trying to get you to leave ever since you moved in,” Jon explains apologetically, “and normally I would just ignore him, you know, b-because he’s a bit…” Jon trails off, as if searching for an accurate descriptor that isn’t a colourful swear.

“Elias?” Martin supplies.

“Yes! Exactly. Well, anyway, he’s been very adamant about it as of late, and I figure, you know we’ve been seeing more and more of those- those  _ worms _ about, and… well, I’m not throwing you out, of course, but- but Elias genuinely might.” Jon says, all in a rush.

“Oh,” Martin responds haltingly, still processing the rapid stream of words, “Um, okay. I- I’ve been looking for places, but-”

“Ah!” Jon interjects, “It’s- this is obviously quite short notice, so, if you need to, I’d be willing to- ah- that is- you could stay with me?”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

"Really? I- I mean- yes! That would be- thank you, Jon,” Martin stammers. Jon blushes and offers a small smile.

“Of course,” He says softly.

And so it is that that Friday, Martin is standing in the doorway of Jon’s flat, neither of them entirely sure what to do with themselves.

“Er, make yourself at home, I suppose,” Jon says, waving vaguely at the flat.

“Right,” Martin says hesitantly, taking off his shoes when Jon does the same. “Where should I drop my bags?”

“Oh, you can just put them in the bedroom,” Jon says absently, then his mind seems to catch up with his words and he claps a hand over his mouth, turning beet red. “I- I mean, if you want to, there’s no- obligation, you know I’m not- I just- a-assumed, I-”

“ _ Jon _ ,” Martin says firmly, cutting off the anxious rambling. “It’s alright.”

“Thank you,” Jon says weakly.

Jon’s flat is- well, Martin wouldn’t call it  _ messy _ , but it definitely isn’t tidy. Jon doesn’t really own enough stuff for the space to be properly cluttered, and the few possessions he does have even seem to be somewhat organised, but everything is just slightly askew, as if placed there by a hasty and unsteady hand. The bed is made, in the loosest possible sense of the word, plain white pillows thrown on top of wrinkled covers. On Jon’s dresser, there’s a thick book about sixteenth-century illuminated manuscripts with a post-it note bookmark sticking out of it. There's also a small photograph of a woman Martin’s never seen brandishing a microphone and a cat and standing next to a much younger looking Jon. It takes Martin a moment to realise that it’s actually him, because, incredibly, Jon is wearing a worn-looking leather jacket, copious amounts of eyeliner, and holding a bass guitar. Martin smiles at it and sets his bag down next to the bed.

When he returns to the kitchen, Jon is hovering over a pot of water, waiting for it to boil with an impatient look on his face.

“What’re you making?” Martin inquires, leaning against the counter as Jon startles slightly.

“Oh, it’s just- just pasta, really, nothing special,” Jon replies, as if Martin would be anything less than ridiculously delighted to try Jon’s cooking even if it were microwave mac-and-cheese.

“Is there anything I can help with?” Martin asks, eager to make himself useful.

“Um, sure,” Jon says, sounding mildly surprised, “There are some vegetables in the fridge; you could- you could start washing those, if you like.” Martin nods, and the two of them lapse into a comfortable silence as they work. 

Soon enough, dinner is ready and Martin sets the table while Jon makes final adjustments to the seasoning. They sit down at the small kitchen table, facing each other, and it feels strangely romantic in a way most of their relationship hasn’t been, what with the worms and the clairvoyance and… well, everything. It’s unexpectedly wonderful to have a nice, normal dinner together and talk about decidedly non-supernatural things. Well, mostly non-supernatural. Martin still isn’t completely certain Younger Jon isn’t some sort of mysterious cryptid.

“Jon, were you in a band at uni?” He asks, recalling the photograph. Jon cringes.

“Maybe? Why do you ask?” Martin blushes.

“I… may have seen the picture in your room.” He expects Jon to groan, or maybe bury his face in his hands, but to Martin’s surprise, he actually laughs, light and amused and full of nostalgia.

“We were so terrible,” he says fondly, “I kind of forgot about it, to be honest.”

“Well,” Martin says, “luckily, you have me to remind you!”

“Yes.” Jon deadpans, “Fortunately, with you around, I’ll never be able to outlive my past mistakes.”

They make pleasant conversation until they finish dinner (which is, actually, very good. Who knew Jon could cook?), and Martin does the dishes while Jon sends a few follow-up emails for various statements.

“You brought statements home with you? On the weekend?” Martin asks, not sure why he’s still surprised. It might be more shocking if it turned out Jon actually  _ did  _ know how to take a day off.

“I always bring statements home with me on the weekend,” Jon replies absently, barely looking up from his laptop, “Elias won’t let me come into the office on Saturdays.”

When the sun begins to sink behind the London skyline, Martin grabs his pyjamas and heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed, leaving Jon to change in his room. When he returns, they move around each other hesitantly, suddenly sheepish and shy, like a pair of spooked horses. Martin is the first to get into bed, Jon somewhat awkwardly motioning for him to do so. They end up lying facing away from each other, with a good six inches between them. Martin tells himself that it’s alright, that it’s great, actually, and he doesn’t need anything more. Then Jon moves his foot and it brushes against Martin’s calf and he stops kidding himself.

They lay like that for a long time, long enough that they both should be asleep. Even from here, Martin can feel the tightness in Jon’s body, the tension in his shoulders, and he knows he’s still awake, too.

“Jon?” He calls softly, and almost immediately Jon rolls over, his eyes bright and gleaming with wakefulness in a way they never do during the day.

“Yes?” He replies, and his voice is just as soft, if a little rough from disuse.

“Just wanted to know if you were- um- also having trouble sleeping.” Jon laughs quietly, his voice still a little ragged in a way that is frankly a little unfair.

“Yes,” He says again, as if it’s an inside joke with just himself, “I am.”

Martin brings his hand up to rest, palm-up, in the space between them. It’s not unlike a gift, placed there so that Jon might grasp it, fingers poised to curl around Jon’s knuckles. Jon does not take the hand, but shifts closer to Martin and rests his head upon it, so that Martin is cupping Jon’s face with one hand. Jon closes his eyes for a moment, as if savoring the contact, and reaches over to run his fingers through Martin’s tight curls. Martin just gazes at him, holding his breath. He knows that sudden movements won’t actually scare Jon away, but the moment feels so private, so volatile, impossibly fragile and precious. Jon opens his eyes and Martin can’t stop himself from pulling him into a kiss. Jon gasps, just a little, but doesn’t relinquish his hold on Martin as their lips meet, soft and warm and so, so familiar. The room is dark, and the darkness is absolute and absolutely theirs. It feels like, for a moment, the whole world is swallowed up in that darkness, and it all belongs to the two of them. They kiss for a long time, gentle and sweet and there just for the sake of being, just because it feels good to be with another person. Eventually, Jon pulls away and tucks his head under Martin’s chin, basking in the comfortable silence. 

“I talk in my sleep,” Jon says suddenly, his voice a little muffled.

“Okay,” Martin says, a little confused.

“I- I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep,” he explains, “so that’s why I didn’t warn you before.”

“And now?” Martin can’t see Jon’s face, but he can hear the smile in his voice when he says,

“I think I might have been wrong.” Martin hums his agreement.

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“G’night.” Jon is silent for a moment before he says,

“Goodnight, Martin.”

And for once, both of them sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! some notes-  
> \- YES i talk in my sleep YES i have insomnia YES i am projecting and what about it  
> \- if you have suggestions or requests, feel free to leave a comment or to hit me up on twitter @joneselllie  
> \- the final chapter will come out on tuesday, april 28  
> \- see ya!


	12. Chapter 12

Jon wakes up still pressed into Martin, breathing in the scent of his clothes, face buried in the corner of his shoulder. He almost gasps when he sees the light streaming in through his window- it’s been ages since he managed to sleep later than five in the morning. He really should get out of bed, start up on some of the work he’d planned on doing… but it’s rather cold in his flat, and Martin is so, so, warm, and he’s earned a bit of rest, hasn’t he? Jon lays back down, slowly, so as not to disturb Martin, and keeps telling himself similar sentiments until he falls asleep.

When Jon wakes up, for the second time, Martin is gazing at him with something very closely resembling fondness in his eyes.

“Hello,” Martin says, his voice achingly soft, and Jon feels his heart swell inside his chest. Jon simply hums in acknowledgement, not trusting himself to form coherent words after just waking up.

“Sleep well?” Martin asks. 

“Yes, very,” Jon mumbles through a yawn. Then, as an afterthought, “What time is it?”

“10:45.”

“Wait, really?” Jon says, suddenly much more alert. He throws off the covers and jumps out of bed, ignoring the familiar spell of dizziness that overtakes him. He doesn’t do a good enough job of it to fool Martin, though, who quickly reaches out a hand to steady him.

“Easy, there,” he says quietly, and for a moment Jon is completely overcome with the desire to kiss him. It strikes him that he can, now, he can kiss Martin as much as he wants, really. Jon places a hand on Martin’s cheek, leaning in just slightly, and then-

Jon leaps back with a start as a shrill whistle sounds from the kitchen. Martin, bafflingly, does not appear startled or confused, rather his expression is a mixture of amusement and fondness and just a little sheepishness. 

“Oh, the water’s boiling!” He says cheerfully.

“Wh-What?”

“I was boiling water,” Martin explains, “for the- for the tea.” There’s a beat of silence where Jon doesn’t know what to say, and then he cracks a smile, and then he can’t stop himself from laughing, throwing his head back and letting his chest fill with mirth and fondness. God, when was the last time he really laughed?

“What?” Martin asks, sounding a little offended, “What is it?” And Jon has to take a moment there, because he really doesn’t know exactly what “it” is. 

“Just- you, I suppose.” Jon says after a moment of consideration, his voice still warm from the laughter, “You’re the only person who would stay the night at someone’s house  _ as a guest _ and then get up and make tea for them.”

“I- I am not the only person who would do that!” Martin splutters defensively, “You’re doing me a favor! I wanted to be useful.” Jon starts to roll his eyes, but he stops himself short. It’s uncomfortably familiar, the feeling that you can only be wanted if you’re  _ doing _ something, if you’re of practical use. Maybe that’s not what’s going through Martin’s head when he says it, but better safe than sorry.

“I invited you here because I like being around you,” Jon says, the words flowing much easier towards Martin than when they’re directed at himself. He takes Martin's hand. “You don’t have to be useful for me to want you.” They lock eyes for a moment, Martin looking a little surprised by the sudden change of tone, Jon trying his best to look earnest.

“O-okay,” Martin says finally. And then, pointing towards the kitchen, “I’m going to- to go get that.”

Jon follows him into the kitchen, the mood once again light and casual.  _ Domestic _ , Jon tries not to think. (He doesn’t succeed.)

“I can’t believe you still have an old stovetop kettle,” Martin chides, “You’re like an old man.” Jon blushes and looks at the floor.

“I tried an electric,” he says, “but I ended up donating it to the archives break room. It made my circuits short out.”

“Wow,” Martin responds, “er, no offense, but you must not have very good wiring.”

“Oh, no, the wiring’s fine,” Jon says dismissively, “It was just a very powerful tea kettle. The entire institute lost power for an hour.” Martin laughs incredulously.

“Jon! Oh my god!” Jon’s mouth twists into a wry grin.

“What can I say? I’m an agent of chaos.” They both burst out laughing at that.

Jon’s small kitchen table is piled high with statements and files, so the two of them bring their tea to the couch. Jon fights very hard not to snuggle up next to Martin. He gives it a valiant effort for all of thirty seconds before he loses the battle miserably. The man is just too damn warm. Luckily, Martin doesn’t seem to mind, draping an arm around Jon’s shoulders and running his fingers through Jon’s long, greying hair.

“Jon, can I ask you something?” Martin asks, sounding a little uncertain. Jon takes a moment to consider, before saying,

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Um, when you were telling me about your… sense, for the supernatural, you said- you said there were other things besides Prentiss. Other- other paranormal entities. What- er- what did you mean by that?” Jon feels himself tense up, feels his breath catch unbidden in his throat, and Martin must feel it too, because he immediately backtracks.

“I- I mean, you don’t have to tell me! It’s totally fine if you don’t want to, I really won’t-”

“Martin.” Jon interrupts, “It’s alright.” He takes a deep breath, feeling a little bit detached from the situation, like he’s watching himself speak from afar. He’s going to do it- after all this time, he’s really going to tell someone. He’s going to tell someone who will believe him. Jon doesn’t allow himself another moment of hesitation before he forces the words out of his mouth-

“I was eight years old when my grandmother gave me the book.”

“It slammed behind him, and he was gone, taking the book with him.”

There is a long moment of heavy silence. Then Martin breaks it.

“Jon, I’m  _ so  _ sorry-”

“No, it’s- it’s alright, Martin. I’m not really the one you should feel sorry for.” There’s another, shorter pause, and then,

“Thank you, though. For telling me,” Martin says, quiet and earnest.

“Of course, I-”  _ I love you _ , Jon’s mind hisses at him,  _ say ‘I love you’ _ . And it’s true, it really is, but love isn’t the reason Jon just confessed all his supernatural childhood trauma. There’s another, deeper reason, one that feels so,  _ so _ hard to come by right now. Jon turns to face Martin and kisses him, impossibly soft and gentle. 

“I trust you,” Jon whispers into the corner of Martin’s mouth, and every inch of him believes it. “I trust you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! some notes:  
> \- aaa so this is the final chapter! honestly i never expected to make this a chapter fic but the support from all of you guys has just been wonderful. thank you so much to everyone who has read this every few days, especially if you've left a comment or a kudos.   
> \- as always, if you have suggestions or requests, you can leave a comment or find me on twitter @joneselllie  
> \- see ya!

**Author's Note:**

> woah thank you for reading! some notes:  
> \- as a circus performer i am all too familiar with the terrible intimacy of having your injuries treated by someone. it's really bad ok your gal is Yearning.  
> \- idk why but i think it would be so funny if martin is just straight up lying to jon's face and jon is like 'ah yes. this man is clearly traumatised. mustn't prod.'


End file.
